The Dallas daily herald. [volume] (Dallas, Tex.) 1873-1887, 1887-02-17
The Tramp's Sacrifice.

Ncui suuscb Vi III oNVhhS "a ehO i"o'
July. Wellington Seymour stood by his
front gate resting himself after a hard
days labor in the harvest-tield, by
watching the people who passed on the
road. They all bowed or spoke to him;
no man in the town was more highly
respected or better known. He was its
Supervisor, and deacon of the church
over the hill; he owned an hundred
acres of valuable land, which he work
ed himself, and the pretty frame house
Just behind him. His wife was at this
time sitting on the piazza, and their
only child, Winnie, was racing up and
down it, somewhat boisterous with the
high spirits of childhood. The family
and the help had eaten supper, and
all were enjoying in their own way the
beautiful summer hour between sunset
and darkness.
Wellington Seymour was forty-six
years old. His hands were hard with
toll; for, though rich and prosperous,
he was one of those who deem manual
labor divinely imposed duty. He was
bronzed and sunburned with exposure;
and the trials and duties of life, as well
as its sorrows, had given grave and
thoughtful aspect to his face. An OBJ
server would have added ten years to
his real age. The few people in such
rural neghborhood as this who were
accustomed to study character by the
features had seen that there was some
thing more than gravity in Mr.. Sey-
mour's face. There was restlessness
about his eve. Sometimes he started
upon hearing an unfamiliar voice.
While the fact had not become sub
jeot of remark, il had certainly been
noticed by these few that Mr. Seymour
did not often appear to be at ease.
As he continued to stand at his gate,
man passed by on foot who neither
bowed nor spoke to him. He was a
stranger, clothed in tattered and dusty
garments. lie walked slowly past,
using a long staff, and appearing very
much fatigued. His hair and beard
were long and unkempt; his face bore
the unmistakable marks of dissipation
and excess. He was, in short, tramp;
one of a class which Mr. Seymour
hated-or would have hated had his
christian principles allowed such n feel
ing. He looked coldly at the man as
he went by, merely observing that he
was tramp, without taking particular
note of his face. He did not see that
the man stared hard at him, after he
had turned his eyes from the unpleas-
ant object. The man walked rod
past the gate, and then suddenly wheel
ed and came back. He stood right in
front of the farmer and leaned heavily
on his staff.
Sir" he said II am very tired and
very hungry. Will you feed me and
lodge me tonight"
you look like tramp" the farmer
replied. "You know the penalties you
are liable to suffer"
Yes, KNOW" the wayfarer cried.
HIS dark eyes snapped viciously, and
there was a ring to his voice that start
led Mr.. Seymour 81 am an outcast,
an Ishmaelite-not because | am vi
cious, but because | am vicious and
poor. The law makes it an olfense to
be poor, if you are bad. Perhaps it is
right; but am too much exhausted
now even to talk about such things. |
appeal to YOU as man to help 4 fell
bowman in distress. Twenty-Five miles
have walked to-day; nothing have ]
eaten since noon. have been refused
relief at half dozen farm-houses, and
whipped off from wagons where tried
to get rest for my poor bruised feet
Welfare you heartless, tooP
Those piercing black eyes were fixed
on the farmers face, with an express
sion that haunts him to this day. A
very brief struggle in his breast ended
by his throwing open the gate.
Come in. poor fellow" he said.
I'll take care of you til tomorrow.
The tramp entered. A few words
from the farmer to his wife explained
the matter to her, and she went to the
kitchen to provide something for the
poor waif to eat The man went to
the pump. washed himself, brushed of
the dust, and then went into the kitch-